


What Should've Been

by magicmark



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Gen, ignore my sobbing, set one year and seven years after dunkirk takes place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 18:31:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18212024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicmark/pseuds/magicmark
Summary: It’s 1941, and Peter still visits the grave.





	What Should've Been

It’s 1941, and Peter still visits the grave.

The day, Thursday, is bleak and raining. The tombstones are dark grey, almost black with the downpour, but this doesn’t stop Peter from sitting at his best friend’s side. His fingers curl in the patches of grass, and he looks distracted, distraught; but deep down, his whole focus is on George Mills.

He misses him - he missed him the moment he fell, the moment he died… the moment they returned home, and George was brought out of the Moonstone on a stretcher. He misses their walks in the moonlight, under the heavy blanket of navy and white stars; he misses the hand-holding, the walks to school from the shore. And most of all, he misses hugging and holding his friend on the days when things weren’t up to par.

Peter didn’t understand how George did it. He was brave even in troubled times - he always smiled, always waved to his family when they met on a walk. He always helped those in need, even if he didn’t know them; but they, like everyone else in town, knew him. Peter often wondered how George could interact easily with someone on the street, or a new student in class. Where George was bold and outgoing, Peter was reluctant, shy.

The blond young man pressed a hand on the stone, and a sigh rippled through him. Soon he was in tears again. He was never more thankful for the rain.

A year ago, a year today, George was killed. No, not killed, he reminded himself. He died in an almost-natural cause. A fall can hurt anyone, and George was one of the victims to it. It was never the soldier’s fault, no. The soldier never meant any harm.

When they arrived home, Peter half-expected the Mills family to weep and mourn their son. Instead they cursed the soldier for not doing the deed sooner.

Peter sighs once more. He looks down at the name on the stone - George Mills, plain and simple. No middle name, barely a surname left of him. Peter was lucky the Mills hadn’t disowned their one and only son in the weeks before his death.

_ He’s finally at peace,  _ Peter thinks. A smile, a smirk forms on his mouth, the kind he used to flash George when they would run to school and he’d beat him by a few seconds. The same smile they shared under the stars. Those stars…

“George?” The eighteen year old moves his hands back into his lap. The rain still drains from the sky, but the graves are returning back to their light, pale grey. Soon it’ll be time to leave him again. “George, you would’ve been so proud.”

“It was graduation, you know? Cynthia and I danced at the reception in the end - Dad chaperoned, so we barely held hands.” A small chuckle followed. Then a breath. “I took that class you wanted me to take, George. Journalism. You used to say I’d be a great writer someday, and Dad figures you’re right. I got a job at the news station, writing for the middle pages.”

“I see your parents from time to time, George. They… your sisters mourn you, and I’m sure your mum and dad do as well. They aren’t that fluent in emotions, if you couldn't tell.” Peter lets a breath escape his lips; a few stray tears roll down his face. “You remember our classmates, right, George? Well, Michael and Isaac have moved in together - left the day before graduation - and Cynthia figures they’re lovers. She smiled about it, and says that love is love… I know how you felt about love, Georgey. She would’ve impressed you.”

The rain splays on George’s stone, leaving droplets dangling from the engraved letters. Peter gently brushes them away.

“Cynthia and I, George… I think we’re happy. She talks of getting married in the summertime - I haven’t even considered a proposal!” He smiles broadly, and his arms are out wide to show enthusiasm. The tears stop falling, and instead they’re replaced with laughter. With joy. “I wish, when we marry, that you could be there, George. You would be the most… energetic best man a fellow could wish for.”

There’s no response. Just the sound of shoes stepping on stone, of car doors closing, of whispers on the other side of the yard. Peter takes this as his cue to leave.

He presses a gentle hand on the stone - George’s stone. He’ll have nobody buried beside him when they age. He’ll never have any mourners that are related to him, at least, none who visit him. The Dawsons are the only ones who ever show.

“See you around, Georgey.” Peter waves to the stone as he walks away. His eyes never leave the stone, not until he’s far away and can barely see it any more.

  
  
  


It’s 1947, and it’s shining out.

Peter’s twenty-four now, with a family to call his own. He brings them with him to his friend’s side, ready to tell George everything he’s missed in the past year.

As he sits by the stone, he watches his wife smile to him from their car. She’s holding the hand of their eldest son; Peter is holding their youngest in his arms. He grins down at the sleeping child in his arms, then turns to face his friend.

“George,” he whispers, careful not to wake the little one. He leans against the stone carefully. “You’ve missed so much, my friend. We’ve had a second son - your namesake wasn’t all that thrilled, but he grew to care for little Charlie. We named him after Dad, just like we’ll name a daughter after Mum.” He pauses for a minute as Charlie begins to stir. Peter can’t help but laugh lightly.

He shifts Charlie to his other arm, and rests his head against George’s stone. He lets a hum come from the back of his throat; he remembers how they used to calm his best friend on those cold, sleepless nights in the boat. He lets the tune carry on until the song - the one he can never recall the name of - finishes.

“As you no doubt know, Dad passed early this year.” Peter keeps his focus on the ground underneath him, in case those hated tears decide to play a trick on him. He lets a sniff out, hoping to whoever was out there that there’d be no crying, not today. “You’re probably talking boats with he and Mum. I’m sure Mum is making you a nice cup of cocoa now…”

A memory hit him suddenly, and he nearly jumps with excitement. “George!” He says, his tone louder than a usual whisper. “The soldier and I met a few months ago. He and his wife were in town for a night… God, George, he’s so sorry for what happened. He wished he could say that to you.”

Silence. Peter knows by now George won’t ever respond.

He continues. “His name is Michael. He’s retired now - he’d been a writer in Birmingham, but now he just lives an ordinary life with his wife and their pets… he asks me regularly now, how are you doing? Sometimes I wonder if he knows you’re really gone, or if he’s forgotten the most of it.”

“It’s probably best he forgets, friend,” Peter adds. He thinks for a moment, unsure what else to say. Should he wait and say more with the soldier at his side? Or is he ready to tell his close friend everything he’s learned from Michael?

He decides against it. Instead he just gazes at the stone, and now Charlie is awake, looking at it too. Peter can hear his George whining from the entrance to the graveyard with his mother, begging her to let them go home. Peter used to feel guilty, not having George recall a thing about the young man he was named after, but he knew that he’d find out in time. For now he’d let the four year old think he was named after whoever he wanted.

As he stood to go, little George came running over to him, barely stepping over the grave sites. His blond hair is a mess in the wind, but in the light, all Peter can think of is his friend.

“You ready to go, little man?” Peter extends a hand for his son, who obliges and takes it. He turns his head to say a final, quiet farewell to his friend, before the Dawson family gets into their painted-blue car and head back home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed this. My apologies if this looks unfinished; I'm hoping to write a sequel to it, one that'll be longer for sure, but today I just wanted to write this (:
> 
> My Tumblr: georgemills (Dunkirk), cornofthekings (LotR)


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